the sun is a dying star
by theory of mice
Summary: The sun is the center of the solar system, twenty-seven billion degrees of molten heat too dangerous to approach, yet too vital to suppress. In a word: irreplaceable.


The sun is the center of the solar system, twenty-seven billion degrees of molten heat too dangerous to approach, yet too vital to suppress. In a word: irreplaceable.

Yet each winter, the human race as a multitude must reflect on this enigma as they wean themselves of the solstice light, agonizingly wrapping summer-tender skin in layers of gloom, like funeral-goers attending the burial of the sun.

When Ziva starts coming to work in a muted array of grey zip sweaters, cargo jackets, and high-necked turtlenecks, Tony doesn't find it strange that a desert femme like herself would take extra measures against the winter chill. Besides, he's always liked a woman in cashmere.

But when the snow thaws and D.C.'s sun refocuses its unwavering welcome rays on the city below, Tony teases her for the flush creeping up her neck underneath her coat. She insists it is the heat, but as she tells the overeager store clerk she is in a relationship, shifts in her coat uncomfortably and avoids Tony's eyes. The interview ends abruptly.

She wears long sleeves well into the summer and Tony surmises she is trying to hide her scars. It has been a full year since her time in Africa. In the days following her rescue, he watched the nurses dress her various burns and scratches, and start fruitless IV lines in veins collapsed by chemicals once injected daily, hourly. Tony had only ever seen track marks of that degree in the holding cells of Baltimore. Scar tissue was inevitable in his experience.

The Ziva David that once used a scar as foreplay might now be wary of the gazes of strangers, the questions always at tongue-tip. She is an American citizen now, and if she chooses not to advertise her previous life as a Mossad assassin, that is her choice. Tony tries to respect that. He feels he understands her a little better, after these six years.

Retrospection is not his forte.

Then, she comes to work with a black eye. It isn't the first time, and if he's being honest, she looks damned good sporting evidence of her extracurriculars.

_Pilates is one of your martial arts, yes?_

So, Tony waggles his eyebrows in his _know you well_ way and snickers, "Stretching partner get the one up on you, Ziva?"

Her mouth pulls down prettily into a frown. _Grab your gear_ is their saving bell.

She begins to elude him, but if he notices he doesn't really care. He's with E.J. now, and the sight of her in flannel is enough to render any man an amnesiac. Besides, Ziva has made it clear that other relationships take priority over him. _Relationship_, rather. The kind between a man and a woman.

Space is a regular part of any relationship, coworker or not. They need this. The team needs this. Tony is fine with this.

Until he one day isn't.

* * *

She lets it slip. _Ray_. What a meek little name for the all-consuming enigma Tony has spent three months trying to crack. Before he knows it, he has ordained the law of daily inter-Ray-gations into his personal arsenal of _how to piss a ninja off_ and the ease with which he can stamp a scowl onto her freshly tanned face at 0600 becomes something he is proud of. Moderately.

When sunshine-y Ray begins to infiltrate his night time dialogues with E.J., he admits to minor obsession. Or rather, obsession with the type of man Ziva finds attractive. He wonders, blaming his midnight mania, how similar he and Ray might be. He confuses himself when he weighs their implications and can't decide his preference.

She is jumpy around him, around people in general. It happens mostly when he is thinking about _him_, or Miami, or sunshine rays licking glowing gold skin in hard to find places… He always knew telemetry was possible. He jettisons the idea of PTSD for that of his personal paranoia inflating her already ninja-like reflexes.

It's not unthinkable that Ziva wants to keep a part of her life private from him. But he is an investigator and an incorrigible snoop, and he has been with Gibbs for long enough to trust a gut feeling when he feels one. For once, he doesn't have to warn her that what goes up must come down. It demolishes itself without his help.

He only wishes he had known the body count beforehand.

He acquires his first real evidence the day she shows up late to work, wearing yesterday's clothes and smelling of expensive men's cologne. She grips a break room mug of jasmine tea and crushes lime juice from her fist.

"Sunshine Ray in town?" Tony intones his name with casual blasphemy, ankles crossed atop the morning's case files.

Ziva strangles a groan and sits gingerly in her chair. "Do not call him that." Her orders are weak, if not distracted. Tony dismisses them.

"So, when are you gonna introduce us? Dinner for eight is a little crowded, but I'm sure Gibbs has room in his –"

The man in question strides through their conversation easily, coffee cup in hand. "No family dinners until we find our suspect. Wanted for attempted kidnapping. Possible ties to active terrorist groups. Grab your gear."

She trips getting her pack and braces one hand against his desk, tea sloshing on the floor below. As she bends to retrieve her coat, Tony grazes watchful eyes under the rise of her shirt, narrowing slightly at the handprints around her hips, the bruises smattering her lower back. She straightens in a hurry and walks nauseatingly towards the chrome interior of the elevator. Inside, reflections of their eyes meet. And break away.

He corners her later in the kitchen of their victim's home, between the open door of the refrigerator and the latched screen leading outside. He snaps a photo of some pickled thumbs sitting next to a milk carton and catches the swing of her ponytail.

"You never did say how your night was," he mentions cavalierly, raising the camera between them as a partition. He clicks another shot, and they stand blinking away the shot like gun powder on a battle field.

She rubs tired eyes, touches discolored skin beneath them. "I should not have drunk on a work night." She yawns like a child.

"Not a lot of sleeping, heh?" If he's grinning, he can't help it.

The look she shoots him actually hurts. He remembers what it felt like when she pointed a gun at him. _Bruising_.

He goes a week without mentioning Ray.

Then she walks in with a new tan and the smell of shea butter and a smile on her lips and she thinks he can't see the finger marks around her neck.

She has gotten careless, or he more observant. Or perhaps the axis of the world is spinning in two directions at once, because here is E.J. sitting on his desk sipping coffee through a straw, and there is Ziva, glowing, brown, and happy, with Ray's hands all over her skin.

He's a coward and doesn't say anything. She leaves them when he calls. He kisses E.J. in the kitchen. Some wounds are invisible.

* * *

It is fall before they know it, multi-colored leaves drowning in the Potomac and burying the majority of their evidence before it's been collected. E.J. spends money on tickets to a Nationals game in Virginia and Tony thinks it a gracious gesture in the midst of a rocky time in their relationship. They road trip Friday night to a hotel suite and leave their inhibitions at the mini-bar.

Later that night, laying naked and drunk next to each other, he closes his eyes and Ziva comes unbidden to his mind. He remembers the hot cell in Africa, her legs bare and bloodied and bruised, hands tied from behind as they dragged her in before him. He recalls the commotion from minutes before, the relentless, rhythmic pounding on the wall over, grunts and groans and small cries, laughing in a foreign tongue. The way she looked at him, one side of her face grated raw from the rough sandstone walls, fingers blooming bright and blue around her neck, imprints upon his vision. He reaches abruptly across the bed and finds E.J.'s sloppy, sleepy lips, feels the warmth between her legs and forgets in painful, rhythmic thrusts.

The Nationals lose.

* * *

She is waiting for him when he returns Monday morning, long sleeves covering her wrists, a witty greeting on the tip of her tongue as he settles behind his desk.

"Have a good weekend?" She smiles wickedly at his discomfort.

"Ziva, there are some things you never do to a man," he loosens his tie and breathes, "Teasing him over the loss of his favorite sports team is one of them."

Ziva looks coyly up from her computer, eyes tracing the length of his tie before settling on her keyboard. "I was referring to your time with Agent Barrett."

Tony blinks and wonders if the light is casting shadows around her mouth, or if Ray kisses with things other than his lips. Ziva smiles and the shadows disappear into her dimples. Tony tightens his tie a little too tightly.

It is November when they first meet him. Abby is sending a flurry of texts to arrange dinner dishes for their annual Thanksgiving feast and the team can hardly compete with the complex rapid fire of menu details. Ziva silences her phone in frustration.

"I cannot keep up with this insanity. If she expects us to participate, she should not assign three people to mashed potatoes and have no one cooking the turkey. I am going to –"

She nearly collides with the tall suited figure posing at the mouth of the bull pen while on her way to Abby's lab. She draws back confused, dazed.

"What are …" Her words fail to produce noise.

The man bares grinning white teeth next to her face. "Need someone to cook your turkey for you, darling?"

Ziva breathes out his name, disguising it as a laugh. "Ray," she looks up with a murky smile. "I thought you were in Miami, still?"

"I wrapped up early for you," he snakes his hands around her waist, drawing her closer. "Aren't you happy?"

Ziva puts her hands on his chest, maintaining an appropriate distance between them while in front of her coworkers. "You didn't tell me," she wrinkles her nose. "You have been very _creepy_ lately."  
He grins and closes the gap despite her protests, "_Sneaky_."

"I… was referring to your last text."

"You didn't like that one?"

"There was something to be desir –"

_Ahem_. Tony stares blatantly from behind his desk. "Introductions, _Ziva_?"

Ziva untangles the man's arms from around her hips and meets the gazes of her male team members. She has the decency to take a step back from the stranger before addressing the men. "Everyone, this is Ray. Ray, this is… everyone."

Gibbs surprises the room by being the first to stand and offer his hand in amity. Ziva names each face as they approach. "My boss – Special Agent Gibbs, Special Agent McGee –"

"Call me Tim, nice to meet you."

"and …"

She eyes Tony warily, as if testing the boundaries of two very different worlds and hoping they do not implode upon impact. Tony grips the man's hand firmly and gauges the return squeeze. He feels hands around his neck. He smiles. "Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo."

Ziva catches the tail end of a smile and says quietly, "This is Tony."

Ray shakes his hand vigorously and raises his chin. "Ray Cruise. A pleasure to meet your acquaintances. Ziva has talked a lot about you."

Tony grimaces under the strength of his grip. "Funny, she hasn't said a whole lot about you."

"You an agent, Cruise?" Gibbs pierces a stare from across the room at his visitor's pass.

"Just celebrated my thirteenth year with the CIA, Agent Gibbs. They've treated me well."

McGee narrows his eyes briefly, "You wouldn't happen to know about the firewall attack that took place last –"

Ziva hooks her arm around Ray's and grabs her coat hastily. "I will give you a quick tour before you go, hmm?"

With a hand, Ray stops her. "Actually, I was planning on taking you to dinner."

Ziva grinds her teeth, jaw locked, and Tony recalls the many times that nurses and lab technicians took turns digging around her warped veins for a meager drop of blood, _draining her_. "I am working, right now. I do not think –"

Gibbs looks up from his desk, ears sharp as ever. "I'll call you when I need you, Ziver."

If her shoulders curl, it is because she is tired. Who wouldn't rather sit at their desk filing through high-rises of evidence reports than enjoy too much wine at a romantic dinner for two? Tony watches Ray put a hand on the small of her back and push her toward the elevator. When he grabs her face with two large hands and kisses her hungrily at the reflective doors, she reciprocates and smiles discreetly into his mouth, one hand holding his wrist as if to restrain him, to break his hold and allow her to breathe for one solitary second before the waterboarding affection continues.

From across the room, E.J's gaze catches Tony's and he smiles back, politely.

* * *

The complicated terrorist case postpones Thanksgiving Day discussions until McGee pipes up one afternoon at an evidence trail. "Say, Ziva, are you bringing Ray to the Thanksgiving dinner? Tony's bringing E.J."

"Hey, that's need to know, Probie!"

Ziva groans and brings a hand to her forehead. "I forgot to tell Abby. Ray has already made dinner plans for that night. I think I will only make it for dessert."

McGee looks unperturbed. "Well, you can still bring him for dessert. We'd all like to get to know him better. Especially, if, you know, he's going to be in your life for the foreseeable future."

Ziva's eyes soften at the agent's optimistic notions of romance. "I will invite him if you insist."

"_Do_ we insist, probie?" Tony growls behind him. "Personally, I'm at odds of having the CIA at my holiday gathering."

Ziva scoffs scoldingly. "It is what he does, not what he is, Tony."

"That's a very zen, new-age-y attitude. Should we expect future contemplative quotes on our Ray-dar?"

"If you do not like him, you do not have to talk to him."

Tony presses his lips into a line and bites his tongue because she still smells of him, still holds herself so cautiously as she does after seeing him, as if she can still feel the teeth of him biting into her, sinking deeper the further she wanders away.

They abandon the conversation and finish their work. When Abby wanders into the squad room a week later to sanction side dishes, Ziva looks thoroughly repentant as she justifies her circumstances yet again to the petulant goth.

"_Ziva_, you know it won't be the same without you! Can't you convince him to make plans for another night? Thanksgiving only happens once a year, you know." Abby employs the full effect of her disappointed gaze towards the corner desk.

"Yes, well, good thing it comes around _every_ year?" Ziva's smile is sweet and golden. Outside, the wind blusters leaves over the skylights, casting flurries of shadows over desks and faces. Tony takes a breath.

"I think the real question is… what will you be doing instead of enjoying our fine company, Agent David? Or rather, what will you be _wearing_?" He raises his eyebrows.

Ziva picks a pencil from her jar and inspects it surreptitiously. "I do not know. But –" The pencil stabs upwards in an exclamation point. "I will see him tonight before he flies out. Perhaps he will share his plans with me."

"_Perhaps_?" Tony leans forward in his seat despite McGee's objections to _another round of this?_ "We have a real mystery man on our hands, now don't we? A real… James Bond for our Jane Bond."

Ziva pins her dark eyes on his across the bullpen, effectively erasing the distance between them. "He is a private man, Tony. I am sure you cannot understand how keeping your mouth shut for more than ten seconds is attractive to a woman, but if E.J. has no qualms…"

Tony narrows his eyes at the insult and wonders at what point E.J. had become a topic of discussion between them.

Ziva comes in the next morning with a trail of lips down her neck. He reaches one arm out and hangs it around her shoulders, quoting _The Last Samurai_ while the plasma plays in front of them and her grimace of discomfort flickers in his peripheral. Thanksgiving is one week away.

* * *

He is thinking of a million better ways to celebrate the mass genocide of America's natives as E.J. wanders out of the bathroom anxiously, bare hands holding her dress against her chest. She looks at Tony breathlessly. "How are you just sitting there? Isn't there something you could be doing right now?"

Tony leans back against the headboard of her bed, shoes carefully dangling off the edge. " 'I can't cook a Thanksgiving dinner. All I can make is cold cereal and maybe toast.' "

"I don't mean –"

Tony sits up and holds her shoulders gently. "Relax. Charlie Brown's Thanksgiving, 1973."

She exhales an irritated burst of air in his face. "Is there nothing you could be doing right now?"

"I can zip you up in this pretty dress." He turns her towards the bathroom and buries his nose into freshly shampooed hair, dripping with strawberries and sugar. Distractedly, he dips his chin into her shoulder, licking at the soft skin of her neck in tiny, hot mouthfuls. "And maybe I can take care of some of that stress for you, yeah?"

She swivels around, flushed. "We're going to be late, DiNozzo."

Pulling her in by her hips, their heat aligns. "A DiNozzo is never late. It's part of our charm."

E.J. moans against his lips, "Your charm will get you in trouble, some day."

"Already has."

They fall onto the bed together.

* * *

Dinner is bright and beautiful, thanks to the militia of candles Abby has brought in from her lab and scattered around Gibbs' house. They finish with plenty of wine and full, laughing bellies, lounging on every flat surface available to them. Gibbs disappears into his basement and resurfaces with a bottle of bourbon and eight dusty mason jars, distributed around the room with a cheer.

The bottle is being passed around when Jimmy exclaims, "Ziva!" from the entry way and knocks a wineglass to the floor in his excitement. From the couch, Tony hears her subtly accented greetings, the rustling embrace of coats and dress shirts, the click of her heels on the hardwood. E.J. shifts beside him, picking her head up from his shoulder and peering towards the door.

She turns the corner wearing green velvet with long sleeves that cover the small bones of her hands and a high neck that emphasizes its elegant length. Earrings dangle delicately from her ears. The barest hint of makeup halos her eyes. It is surprisingly easy to normalize her appearance when she is comfortably surrounded by friends and family, glowing from the cold outside and maybe a little alcohol, not a gun or a knife in sight.

And then he steps in behind her. Almost immediately, he puts a hand on her, securing her to his side. She is nothing but graceful about it, leaning in without complaint. But again, Tony notes her posture alter, her hand finds his as a protective measure against his grip.

Abby finds two more glasses and fills them with several fingers of bourbon each, despite Ziva declining politely for them both. Ray takes his impatiently.

"Come into the living room! We were just waiting for you so we could cut the pies." Abby ushers the couple into the living room with the exuberance of a herding dog on Adderall.

E.J. smiles from Tony's arms. "Nice to see ya, Ziva."

The smile is returned, with words on her lips before Ray interrupts and extends his hand to Tony. "A pleasure to see you again, Anthony."

Tony shakes his hand cooly. "Well, it wouldn't be Thanksgiving without a little emotional scarring."

Ray's friendly pretense fissures minutely, clasp tightening. Ziva's eyes look brown and heavy into Tony's face before she indulges him a smirk. "You got that from one of your movies, yes? The one about friends sharing an apartment but never having sex?"

"A TV show, _Ziva_. Friends. Ever heard of it, Mr. C-I-Ray?"

Ray shakes his head, laughing. He throws an arm once again around Ziva, ignoring her stumbling step against him. "Ziva always talks about how close you two are, like siblings. I hadn't realized just how much of a big brother you truly are." He clinks his glass forcefully against Tony's. "I appreciate the teasing. I was never lucky enough to have siblings like Ziva, but I hope you and I become closer. Really."

E.J. dodges the awkward strain between the men. "Uh, Ziva, I never realized you had siblings. Are they still in Israel?"

Ziva looks at Ray's empty bourbon glass, then back at E.J. snug against Tony's side on the couch. "Oh, I'm sorry, I don't think I ever introduced you two. Ray, this is Agent Erica Jane Barrett. E.J., this is –"

"CIA Agent Ray Cruise, I know." E.J. gives Ziva an quizzical glance. "Didn't Ray tell you he was our CIA liason with NCIS for the Port-to-Port case? Has been since the start."

Ziva blinks a moment's hesitation away before responding easily, "Yes, that's right. I'm sorry, I probably have had too much to drink tonight."

Ray captures her lips with his and takes her still-full glass. "You're right. I'll take care of this for you."

Abby's melodious call for pie cuts the tension into equal slices and serves it around the room.

* * *

Sugar seems to have a sedative effect on the group of friends, young and old alike. Jimmy excuses himself and his girlfriend with excuses of early morning family obligations, while Abby and McGee transform their game of backgammon into a gangle of twisty limbs on the couch, napping off calories. _Gone with the Wind_ rolls in technicolored glory over blankets and pillows and bodies sprawled across the carpet. On the porch, Gibbs smokes and Ducky regales a pastime long-elapsed. Thanksgiving celebrations come to an even-keeled conclusion, made warm and hazy through a fog of bourbon and cigar smoke.

Suddenly, the spike of raised voices and the splash of glass on tile breaks the stupor. A dull, wall-rattling thud startles Abby and McGee awake. From underneath the blankets, Tony scrambles headlong, hand instinctively at his waist as he stumbles into the kitchen. And in his holiday daze, he finds them.

She is pinned against the wall, one hand at the base of her throat, the other ramming her shoulder into the protruding corner of the overhead cabinets. Tony barely registers the sharp shards of glass decorating the floor. He shouts a warning, _Hey! What do you think you're –_ before grappling Ray's shoulder and toppling to the ground, limbs and glass skittering across the tiles. Someone yells his name, or _stop_, or it might be another language because all he really sees is Ray's face beneath him and fists flying up to catch him on his nose, his eye, his mouth. He hears the front door open and E.J. shouts.

Quick, sharp hands pull him off his opponent to his knees. _Ziva_, eyes raging, hands bloody against his chest, dripping down the litany of bruises exposed on her forearms. She pushes him hard against the island of cupboards and he falls back, imaging her gun pressed against his chest, his knee, spitting, sad. _Confused_.

A wet set of crimson handprints sinks through his shirt, just above the heart. He breathes quick, steady breaths. "If you ever lay another hand on her…"

"You fucking son of a –" Ray struggles to his feet, but Ziva's arm swings in front and pushes him back down. He lurches against the cabinets, sitting heavily.

It isn't until McGee brushes past Tony burdened with towels that he realizes the blood source, dark wet rivulets dribbling off Ziva's fingers in irregular beads. She allows Ducky to lead her to the small, round breakfast table, disassembling the tautness of her body into a chair, palms up and gaping. Her eyes flash careful warnings to those around her.

"McGee," Gibbs grabs the back of Ray's jacket and hauls him to his feet, "escort Agent Cruise outside and call him a cab."

Ray turns and stumbles toward Ziva, her name dangling from his lips. Instead, she bites foreign words into the air, pain receding into anger, fury outweighing exhaustion. Whatever the words may mean, Ray retreats, eyes matching the terseness of his reply. He stalks out of the kitchen, teetering for a moment in front of Tony.

"You should learn to keep your nose out of personal affairs," his words slur into a cocktail of bourbon and dark wine, "Might even make a good CIA agent once you stop trying to play the hero."

Tony stares coldly. "You know, I would, but the CIA doesn't appreciate my sense of human decency."

McGee follows Ray's tall shoulders out the door.

The door shuts and Gibbs confronts the two agents before him. "Anyone wanna tell me what the _hell_ just happened?"

"Boss, I know what I saw –"

"You were drunk. You can barely stand on your own feet." Ziva spits across the counter at him.

"He had his hand around your throat, Ziva." Tony gestures wildly at her hands. "How drunk did he have to be to do that?"

Ziva trains her eyes on the shattered pieces of crystal littering the floor. Blood drips off the towels in her hands.

"I dropped a glass. It wasn't his fault," she replies with the calm proficiency of a hearing statement.

"Bullshit!" Tony yells.

Gibbs slams his hand on the counter. "_Enough_." He stares Ziva in the eyes. "You need a ride to the hospital?"

She clenches her fists against the squelch of blood. "I am fine."

Gibbs nods. "Ducky'll look you over." He points at Tony. "_You_. With me." He opens the door to the basement and waits for him, his expression as impenetrable as the thick clouds of sawdust swirling in the air beyond.

* * *

Ducky is uncharacteristically quiet as he goes about his assessments. He has her bend her fingers, murmuring encouragingly when each one moves at its appropriate angle and direction.

"No tendons cut, then, that is good, good."

He examines the gaping scores in each palm, wincing at the depth and commiserating on the scars they were bound to leave. A length of gauze is bound around one hand and elevated on ice to stop the hemorrhaging. The other, Ducky takes gently and proceeds to wash the grime and glass away over the bath tub.

"These wounds are quite severe, my dear. Care to tell me how it happened?" He probes dexterously around a shard of glass until it dislodges.

"I was careless. I broke a glass."

"Well, as a medical examiner, I can tell you the wounds were sustained most likely by _falling_ on the glass, which does not exactly align with your story, Miss David." Ducky doesn't miss Ziva's sharp inhale as he removes another piece of glass. "I'm going to have to stitch these, I'm afraid. Would you like a topical anesthetic?"

Ziva shakes her head. "That will not be necessary."

"Ah, yes," Ducky nods sagely, "You have acquired far worse wounds, I am sure. Nevertheless, there is no need for bravery in front of me. I will not tell." He winks conspiratorially.

Ziva closes her eyes and leans her head back against the tiled shower wall. "I do not care much what other people think."

"Really?" The doctor rustles in his bag for thread and a needle. "I was under the impression that perhaps you cared too much."

Ziva is silent and steady as he pulls the first stitches. The dribbling tap counts seconds, minutes, before she startles the air with a confession. "It was my fault. I took his glass from him and he pushed me. He drank too much. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Doctor Mallard?" She watches him with a tired gaze.

Ducky grimaces. "Not in the least, my dear, but I suppose it will have to do." He adds another neat stitch to the row. "I presume you were hoping to avoid the embarrassment of a drunk lover while in the company of friends. Or perhaps, something else entirely?"

Ziva's fingers twitch. "He is not a bad man."

"Quite the contrary. I never said he was."

"He… I do not like it when he drinks. He reminds of my father."

Ducky snips the ends of the ties with sharp shears. "You know, it is not uncommon for people who have suffered abuse to seek it out in their romantic partners, as well. In fact, most women admit to marrying men who closely resemble their fathers in looks, personality, career choice, mannerisms, even – oh, I am sorry my dear, I did not mean to open old wounds, so to speak."

Ziva swallows her emotions and nods forgiveness, offering the other hand. Ducky unwraps it with care. As the bandage falls away, the torn fabric of her sleeve comes apart, baring the soft, mottled skin along her forearm and red lines of angry welts marching into the crook of her elbow.

Ducky touches the patterns of abuse quietly, kindly. A tremor wracks her body as he brushes tonight's evidence and the memory of Ray pinning her against the restaurant's bathroom mirror, greedily, impatient, rough, permeates her senses.

"Tender?" he questions.

"They are from sparring."

Ducky's wise eyes crinkle. "May I ask with whom?"

Silence cripples the conversation, so Ducky threads the needle once more and attends his task without further query. The pain is meditative, a rhythmic link to reality in which Ziva gratefully loses herself to escape the past. She refuses the pain killers he offers, standing with tightness in her palms and throat.

If the good doctor notices the glint of sentiment in her eyes, he only smiles and says lightly, "Visit me soon, my dear. I will remove those and we can share some tea."

Ziva pauses on a heartbeat of choked affection. Emotions would not be afforded tonight. "I can take care of myself, Ducky."

She opens the door and walks down the stairs, numb. Behind her, the bathtub gurgles her blood down the drain.

* * *

"Talk to me, DiNozzo," Gibbs skips down the stairs and picks up a sander.

"You really gonna polish your boat right now, boss?"

The rough grit rips at Tony's callouses. "Not me. You."

A smothering sort of ritual passes over the room, with only the _hush, hush_ of sand against the grain of time, and the quivering shiver of electricity dancing in the lightbulbs overhead.

After a lull, Tony speaks cautiously. "I know what I saw. And I know it wasn't right. My gut… well, I was a cop for long enough to know that something's been wrong for a while, now."

"What'd you see?"

"What I said before. His hand around her throat, shoved against the wall – we all heard the glass break." He takes another gulp of air. "And she'll say it's all her fault, but it wasn't, okay? She's done nothing to deserve that."

The sander gets lost in wood shavings as Tony leans against the saw horse, eyes focused far and away. "I'm worried about her. Ever since Somolia…"

Gibbs sands _hush, hush_ in the corner.

"Have you noticed she only wears long sleeves now? And the weird bruises she always has – I mean, you never trusted him in the first place, right? Doesn't help that he's CIA, practically spells out his guilt right there. He's just some sick bastard who thinks he can charm his way out of situations and get the girl, too. Shoulda seen this one comin' boss, cause if you've watched any of the Bond series, old or new, you'd know –"

He stops abruptly and looks up, choking on something more than dust. "She can't really love him can she, boss?"

Gibbs shakes his head. "Love's got nothin' to do with it." He wets a rag and passes it to Tony. "Clean yourself up and have Barrett drive you home."

"But what are we gonna do about it?"

Gibbs looks up at the dimming lightbulbs, flickering their exhaustion. "Right now? Give her space. Time to think. She can take care of herself."

"And what if she can't? She's too close. _What if_ –"

"Go home, DiNozzo." Gibbs reaches for the lights. "That's an order."

Night falls over the bare skeletons of the basement, all wood and grief and nameless sorrows. Tony retreats to the bottom step, releasing his mind to the extracting darkness until he is ready to face reality again. Despite the hour, E.J. is waiting for him when he comes back up.

He kisses her outside of his apartment because he knows he should. But mostly because he feels guilty for a lot of things right now and for once she is not one of them.

* * *

Gibbs finds her in the dark living room after everyone has left, fishing through her coat pockets with tender hands.

"Looking for somethin'?" He jangles her keys lightly.

She steps forward with hands clasped behind her back, remorse curling in her shoulders. "I thought that I should leave before I break anything else."

Gibbs pockets the keys indifferently. "Did you?"

"Yes, the glass, don't you remem– …you were talking about the driving." Ziva positions her hands gingerly between them, muted light catching the delicate embroidery across the base of her palms. "Ducky has stitched me…" her eyebrows hitch, "…up. Stitched me up. And I am not drunk. I can drive myself home."

Gibbs treads careful steps around her and sits on the couch, under-stuffed cushions collapsing under his weight. "I know you can. But I'm not gonna let you." He angles his head towards the space beside him. "Take a seat."

"If you're going to give me a lecture on my bad judgement –"

"Nope." He pats the couch. "Just wanna talk."

Wariness plays out across her face before an impassive mask dissolves all emotion. She sits hesitantly, as if unused to casual contact.

"Tony's worried about you."

"That is what you wanted to talk to me about?"

He smirks, shakes his head. "No. Just thought you should know."

"He has no reason to be." Eyes flash resolute before looking away. "I can –"

"– take care of yourself. That's what I told him."

He sighs and digs a hand deep into his pocket, fishing out a small, round globe. In its center, a butterfly unfurls its wings, ready to take flight.

"Kelly's old night light," he explains. "She couldn't sleep without it."

Bending on stiff knees, he fits dull prongs into a wall outlet near the couch and smiles softly at the warm purple glow flooding the room. "You can sleep on the couch tonight. Sweats and blankets are in the chest."

The room is a pastel bubble, encapsulating her bones in the monotonous hum of the radiator and the occasional spray of traffic outside. She sits very still, drenched in rays of amethyst so that the bruises on her arms swim together in shades of royalty. Gripped by some ancient habit, he turns, slowly, in the doorway, and peers protectively over the girl in her purple room. Upstairs, the small butterfly bed gathers another minute's dust. Ziva raises her eyes.

"I am… sorry, Gibbs." Her lips move clumsily, laden with regret.

"Rule number six. Apologizing is a sign of –"

"_weakness_," she swallows a little to keep the pain inside.

"You're not weak, Ziver. Never were." His silhouette diffuses with the kitchen light before it disappears entirely.

In the ensuing calm, Gibbs' final words take wing in the steaming wisps of hot furnace air and waft into the warm the corners of the room.

_Goodnight, kid._

* * *

That she is able to fall asleep without the help of Ray's hands around her neck or the wall against her head to slip her into a dreamless oblivion is a small miracle. Yet, she wakes retching, shivering and soaked in the borrowed NCIS sweats. Apparitions of a dirty cell, a sibling's laugh, her mother's feeble cries, hurt her far more than the radiating ache in her hands. She gags again as a phantom hand rests behind her neck and she waits for the memory to play itself to completion.

_She is dead, Zivaleh_. Her father's voice rumbles around the room. _She refused my protection, and for that, she has paid with her life. Never be so conceited as that, my daughter._

She feels the leather of her father's department chairs, Tali's hair spread out across her lap in an exhaustive knot, Amit's smoke slithering under the door crack.

_You may have your mother's arrogance, but you have my patience – it is my duty to expel these faults from you, Ziva. Through pride, she risked your lives by taking my daughters away from me. Through patience, I allowed it to happen. These will not be your virtues._

She remembers a man's fist, ripping her from bed and locking her behind the pantry screen with Tali, powerless to her mother's cries as they besieged her, strangled her, tore her clothes and humiliated her.

Her brother's voice drones over Tali's screams. _He ordered a retaliatory drone strike on my mother's camp and gave me my orders the very same day. I wish I could see his face when he realizes he created not a mole, but a monster_…

She barely makes it to the sink before a single gunshot echoes in her head. Alcohol comes up bitter and burning in her throat. Ari's blood stains her hands.

She does not know how she finds her way downstairs. Her bare feet carry her across the cold cement to the dim outline of polished floor near the far right corner. It glows like a ghost in the darkness. She imagines Gibbs scrubbing for hours until the water ran frothed with bleach instead of blood. Was it gone by Kate's funeral? As she threw the last handful of dirt over her brother's coffin?

Since her return from Somalia, the basement housed far too many specters of her past to sanction visitation. She'd forgotten the smell of bourbon and barn and stagnant blood, the whispers of so many voices sifting through the air. The rough wood worktop prickles her back as she slides to the floor. Briefly, she thinks of Gibbs and his boat.

Her hand fumbles blindly over the collection of tools laying on the bench beside her: sanders, drill, hammer, saw. The chisel she bought nearly a year ago falls into her lap, sharp and heavy. In her peripheral, Ari laughs during a hot, drunken night in her childhood when he called her _kapara_, _my atonement_. How easily the name fit her. Even now, she feels herself shatter piece by piece, and yet she remains a collection of penance, incomplete repentance.

She wrenches the corner of the chisel under her stitches and rips them, knot by knot, until the pain she feels screams louder than her mind. Far, far away, in an empty cell, Africa tugs at her reality. The happy lightheaded feeling of oblivion floods her body as her blood mingles with the past and her head hits the cold concrete. She curls instinctively, body aligning with her brother's final imprint on this earth, and awaits the void.

Patience has never been her virtue.


End file.
